


Inside Out, Red

by mountebank



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Adultery, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountebank/pseuds/mountebank
Summary: They hold back, and kiss sweetly, Rafa’s teeth keep getting in the way because he can’t stop smiling. Roger huffs because he can’t kiss him properly like he wants to, and that makes Rafa laugh more. They don’t care much. They kiss and kiss and kiss.





	Inside Out, Red

**Author's Note:**

> a quick thing
> 
> rough, unedited, didn't happen

“Red, of course, is the colour of the interior of our bodies. In a way it’s inside out, red.” — Anish Kapoor.

—

—

—

'Can I help you, sir?'

Roger starts, though he’s not sure how he has managed to be taken off guard by the sales assistant in her crimson uniform and matching shoes. Even her lipstick is the same shade. Her name is Violet, which is rather disappointing following her blazing traffic light entrance. 

'Red,' Roger blurts, gesturing vaguely at the counter in front of him with both hands. 'I’m looking for something red.'

She smiles quizzically, but there’s not spark of recognition in her eye. He’s just another hapless husband and she’s going to make an easy sale. Good.

'Red doesn’t narrow it down a lot, honey, but that’s a start,' she says. She laughs and Roger is fascinated by the way her eyes don’t wrinkle and her eyebrows don’t move. Botox, his brain supplies. You can’t go over ten years in correspondence with Anna Wintour and not know something about botox. 

'We’ve got pink reds, orange reds, yellow reds…' She runs her nails — click, click, click — over each corresponding colour family, they’re perfectly manicured and red as her outfit too.

'I’ve never thought about red this deeply.'

Her smile is strange again in her immobile face, but her voice is kind. 'I would recommend a classic, true, blue red then.' She says, plucking the box off the counter. 'Would you like to try it on?'

‘Oh no! It’s a gift. Not for me.' Roger’s says. It’s not a lie, but he laughs a little helplessly at the sales assistant, uncharacteristically nervous. 'Thank you.'

Her smile is knowing and Roger wonders about her other customers. Girls, and young women, mothers, grandmothers. Fathers? Grandfathers? His view of her shifts a little and he realises he’s looking at a woman passionate about colour only. Maybe that’s why she’s decided on botox, he thinks. She’s her own canvas. Or maybe he’s just used to sun weathered skin of athletes, deep lines and wrinkles and dimples and…

'Sure, honey. We have a number of finishes too, matte is quite popular at the moment, but we’ll stick to classic for now. I think you’ll like that one.' 

Roger likes her easy use of the inclusive pronoun, we. They’re a team already, sharing a secret. Why not? 

Roger pays and succumbs to a sales pitch on the special offers too. He puts the little bag in his jacket and finds Mirka on the floor above in the women’s clothing section. They have lunch, they go back to the hotel. The bag burns a hole in his pocket.

—

“…a piece of red ochre, a mineral naturally rich in iron…”

Mirka sits, relaxed on the couch in their suite, red wine in hand. She’s watching a documentary on cave paintings.

'Fascinating, isn’t it?'

The professor on the screen moves from painting to painting deeper within the cave. He talks through each type, skipping tens of thousands of years at a time. Red ochre, swilled in the mouth and blown onto the rock surface. Red flowing streams of dots, their meaning unclear, but understood as a proof for the human urge to pattern, order, control. Stencilled hands, outlined in that same, blown out red. 

Roger agrees. 'Yes it is.' He says.

They watch the rest of the programme in companionable quiet, the children not travelling with them for this part of the season. 

—

Mirka places her glass next to the sink — click.

'I got you a gift.' Roger says. He’s not sure why he says it. 

Mirka’s in her nightclothes, dressing gown hanging loose. She sits next to him back on the couch. He’s still in his jeans and t-shirt, and he’d just pulled his jacket back on. He hands her the little bag.

'Nail polish? Purple?' She holds the bottle up to the light and the glitter in it catches and reflects. All together it’s not as garish as sparkly purple nail polish could be. 'Have you ever seen me wear purple nail polish, Roger?' She rolls her eyes but she’s amused.

'No. The sales assistant really pressured me, what can I say.’ He says. He shrugs, grins, he’s the hapless husband.

‘Well, it’s nice enough but really, I will never wear this.' Mirka says. 'There’s no point keeping it. Do you have the receipt? I can return it tomorrow.'

'No.' Roger lies. 'Well, I might,' Roger decides to amend. 'I’ll check my wallet. If I find it I can return it myself, no problem.'

'You have an 11am practice and media all day.'

'I’ll go first thing.'

'For one bottle of nail polish?'

Roger snatches the bottle off her a little rougher than he’d intended.

'I’ll keep it for Myla and Charlene then. What does it matter?'

'It doesn’t.'

Roger pushes himself up and toes on his shoes. Mirka’s face is carefully neutral.

'You’ve booked another room?'

'Yes.' Roger says. He hasn’t booked another room, but that’s not the point of the question. That’s not what Mirka’s asking him. 

I don’t know what to do. I know and I don’t know. She’d said once. She hadn’t cried in front of him. I don’t want to know. He was more selfish back then, he thinks. It’s different now, but the rules are still the same. They don’t discuss.

They’ve both asked the question, although from Mirka it’s only been three times — Roger has kept count.

He shouldn’t have brought up the fucking nail polish. He has invited discussion.

'I see.' Mirka says, the tone of her voice equally neutral. It’s not cutting. Mirka knows how to be cutting. But it’s still a punishment.

Roger wants to demand — what can you see? He doesn’t. He kisses her on the cheek and she accepts it and he leaves as he had had planned since before they’d even gone shopping together earlier that day.

—

'Hello, Roger!'

'Oh, hi.' 

Belinda is in the elevator. Of course. He’s not in the mood for small talk, but he can’t be rude. Then an idea comes to him to avoid the pleasantries. 'Hey, you like nail polish right?' He says.

'Uh, sure.' She replies, startled.

'Here.' He takes her hand and puts the bottle in her palm. 'This is for you.'

The elevator chimes and she leaves with the bottle. Roger feels lighter already.

—

Roger double checks the room number on his phone and then knocks. Rafa answers the door, soft eyed, ruffled, gorgeous.

'Roger.' 

Roger backs him into the room and Rafa smiles and smiles and smiles. He lets the door shut behind them and then just holds him over saying I missed you for the thousandth time.

'I missed you, too.' Rafa says, hands warm on Roger’s back.

'I’m going to kiss you now.'

They hold back, and kiss sweetly, Rafa’s teeth keep getting in the way because he can’t stop smiling. Roger huffs because he can’t kiss him properly like he wants to, and that makes Rafa laugh more. They don’t care much. They kiss and kiss and kiss.

—

Later, they sit cross-legged facing each other on Rafa’s sofa in just their underwear, a finished pack of nutritionist approved dark chocolate coated corn cakes between them, and a shared can of diet coke.

'I bought us something. You something.' Roger starts. He collects the rubbish between them to tidy away, to have something to focus on and keep his hands busy. He’s suddenly nervous. They’ve had these discussions before, even beginning with similar words, but this is something new. Roger is not sure where to start.

He bins everything and then takes the little box out of the pocket. He throws it to Rafa.

He waits. 

'Lipstick?' Rafa asks.

'Yes.'

'For me to wear? Or you?'

'For you. If you would like.'

'I didn’t know you liked… things like this.' Rafa’s tone is questioning, light. Roger watches him trace the lipstick tube with his thumb.

'It’s not about…' What? Roger doesn’t know. 'I don’t know. Makeup.' 

Well, maybe it is a little. He’s been thinking about this for a while now. Trying to imagine how it would go. He hadn’t planned on the shopping today, but his lipstick idea had been sitting half formed in his mind for a while. 

'Then, we will see,' Rafa says. He’s up and taking Roger’s hand. 'I want to try.' And he pulls him into the bathroom.

—

Once he’d said, You’re the only one I tell everything to.

Really? Not even Mirka? Her name was strange in his mouth.

The only one.

—

'Wait,' Roger says. 'I want to kiss you first.'

They kiss, hungrier, hotter, wetter than earlier. Roger presses himself closer and closer, crowding Rafa into the bathroom counter. He threads fingers through Roger’s hair and tugs. Roger’s teeth catch on his lip, not at all by accident and Rafa gasps. He pulls Rafa away from the counter now, runs his hand over his back, his narrow waist, following the contour of his body down over his ass, thighs, their hips push together. Eventually they pull away completely, panting.

'Okay.' Rafa says. 'I try the lipstick. You gonna watch?' Roger nods.

Rafa turns around the face the mirror. He rolls up turns the base to roll it up, blue red, classic red, true red. He leans and bends over the sink to get close to the mirror and starts to carefully trace the bow of his top lip. Roger has to clutch at Rafa’s hips and push his swelling cock against his ass. Rafa presses his lips together and the colour imprints onto his bottom lip and pleasure spills, coiling in Roger’s gut. Rafa shifts backwards very much on purpose and Roger grips Rafa harder and grinds against him in tight circles. Roger moans and pleasure spikes too soon, too fast and he realises he could come just like this, underwear still on and all. He forces himself to slow down.

'Rafa,' he starts. He’s determined to get the words out properly. 'The lipstick is about… what I want is…'

Rafa starts filling in the colour on his bottom lip.

'I want you to leave a mark,' Roger says. They don’t—they can’t—leave love bites, bruises, marks in the shape of teeth and fingers, crescent moon indents from nails, scratches. 'I want to see where you’ve been.'

Rafa turns around, lipstick applied. He hasn’t done a bad job, it’s pretty neat, considering. Roger thinks he looks beautiful. He wants to touch his lips, press his fingers inside, he’s never felt more eager to take Rafa’s mouth.

'I understand, I think,' Rafa says.

Roger doesn’t know what else to say. 'I think you need to blot the lipstick.'

Rafa kisses him on the cheek wicked fast. 'There,' He says. 'I leave a mark.' Then he’s on his knees.

He pulls down Roger’s underwear and kisses the underside of his cock. 'Another one.' Then he sucks Roger’s cock down, almost to the root, Roger’s eyes roll up, and he shocks himself with how loud he moans. He catches sight of himself in the mirror, his flushed chest, red face, the imprint of Rafa’s lips on his cheek redder still.

Rafa pulls off his cock, he’s left a red ring of lipstick at the base of it, he examines his work.

'You like it?'

Roger can’t breathe. 'Yes. Yes.'

They fuck messy and sweaty for a long time. They take the tube of lipstick with them and it gets reapplied over and over. Rafa in Roger’s lap, lips on his chest, burrowed into his neck and jaw. Rafa on his front, streaking the pillows with red. Rafa on his back, under Roger, both of them with mouths smeared red, red, red.

—

Roger can barely move the next morning. When he does manage to crack open an eye the mess they made together has him laughing enough to shake Rafa awake next to him.

'Like a murder scene.' Rafa’s voice is sleep gravelly and lovely. He doesn’t open his eyes but he does smile.

'Yeah, shit,' Roger laughs. He kisses a blank spot of Rafa’s face. 'Our pores will be all blocked now.' More sage knowledge from Anna Wintour.

'Our pores?' Rafa wrinkles his nose and finally opens his eyes a little.

'I’ll google translate later,' Roger says. 'We should shower.'

They stand in front of the bathroom mirror for a minute before showering and grin at each other’s reflections. They’re covered in red streaks and dots. Patterns of where they’d been.

Rafa turns to the side, strikes a pose, 'We could be modern art, no?'

—

—

—

Roger sees Belinda in the elevator back up to his room. Of course. She’s wearing sandals and her toe nails are sparkling purple. He imagines Mirka noticing her painted toenails later, maybe in the hotel lobby, or at the club later. She’d see two and two and get five. He’d let her. He’d let her catch him red-handed, purple toed. Hah.

“Hello again, Roger. Oh, you’ve got something…” She trails off pointing at his neck, she hides a small smile. 

Roger looks in the elevator mirror and sees the mark on his neck. The stamp of Rafa’s lips. It’s pretty faded but still there. Ridiculous cartoon proof that he’s been kissed recently. He brings his hand up to scrub at it, get ride of it before he gets to Mirka, but he just presses his fingers there for a second.

He smiles sheepishly. A last performance. Hapless husband.

He gets out of the lift at the next floor even though he hasn’t reached his own and takes the steps the rest of the way up. He decides to leave the mark there.

—

Mirka actually bursts out laughing when she sees it. And finally, they talk.


End file.
